To be very honest with you, I don’t know whether this one should be repeated or not, but we wrote it together, like many other things we wrote together.

I had my own Words once, many years ago. It isn’t the same thing now. Horseplay was written by us for fun.

C.S Capewell and C.D Chevalier.

Citrin du Chevalier was a magnificent stallion of ill repute who wanted to tell a story before his brains fell out.

‘Why would your brains fall out, Citrin,’ asked his rider, a jockey by any other name.

‘Because I have been very silly, galloping around the countryside, and forgetting what I am supposed to be doing.’ Here, Citrin says, “I am better now, this was long ago and far away and I am better but I’m still an idiot.’

‘Is that why you wish to be a goldfish’ the jockey asked gently, rubbing Citrin’s magnificent chestnut neck.

‘Neigh,’ cried Citrin. ‘But, it resonated with me, because I have the attention span of one.’

The jockey pondered this for a little while, then asked Citrin if he would like to try some dressage.

‘To be honest, I am used to racing,’ Citrin snorted. ‘Dressage makes me a little cranky. Can we have a run around the paddock a few times and then, perhaps, I’ll give it a whirl.’

So, the jockey took off her boots and spurs, reminded Citrin he was not a porcupine because they do not exist in Australia, then removed Citrin’s saddle and bridle, unbranded his coat and removed the iron from his feet. She did not let him float off and up into the air, she let his winter coat grow in and he began to look a little scruffy.

‘How does that feel, Citrin,’ she asked, looking into his mismatched yet awesome eyes.

‘It feels like I am free, for once.’ He puffed through his nostrils and looked around the paddock. And, looking back on these words, he says softly “It feels like I am free all over again. Thank you. ‘How big is the world beyond this paddock, oh jockey friend.’

‘The world is a very large place, Citrin, and I am a little concerned you may get lost. But, here in Australia the sky goes on forever and, if you plan carefully, you can run for many kilometres before you need to stop.’

‘I like this idea,’ said Citrin. ‘Would you be too concerned about me running for many years?’

‘It depends on what you want to run, and whether you want to run to something or from something. What would you like to do, Citrin?’

‘I just want to run to something rather than from something,’ Citrin said. ‘That is all I want to do. I haven’t been able to run to something for a very long time and I’m sad. I just need to have a destination.’

The jockey stroked his scraggly mane, and brushed his tail until it shone. ‘Before I open this gate again, Citrin, I am going to let you have a rest in a safe place and think about where you would like to run to. I know you have been a good stallion all your life, now, and I know you just need to have a break. I think you are perfectly capable of being victorious one last time, if you want to be.’

You write it differently today, he thinks. This is not how it went the last time. I have a copy too. I think I am getting fed up with people more often than I’m not, and I really need to talk about it to my friends. Properly this time, I think, not just with you.

This had been a huge step in the right direction for Citrin. The jockey did not sit outside the gate and wait, and she did not need to find the other horses who were Citrin’s friends. They had found him quite soon after this story was written the first time, and have been “coddling the bejesus” out of him ever since. They had spoken of pavlova, and how one should not eat in bathtubs, and had spoken of pools, and how one should sing about scarecrows in pools, and had laughed a great deal about being weird and friendly, all at the same time, and they had reached a point where almost every single one of them was reasonably happy, if not completely whole again.

Little did she know, they had helped her write this one last time as well, and were sitting in bathtubs with rubber duckies, and crying into their noodles, and desperately trying to be patient and not mean, and demonstrating that they could be nice too, if they really wanted to.

What matters the most though, more than anything else, is that they are trying. And, if they’re trying their best, that’s all we ever ask for really, isn’t it?

‘Yes,’ whispered Citrin from atop a distant mountain. He looked down at the chestnut gelding he had “appliqued on his destrier’s blanket” just the previous week. ‘That’s all we can ask for.’